Tavern Music (iPod Shuffle Challenge)
by JayRain
Summary: For Acherubis's iPod Shuffle Challenge on the Dragon Age Writer's Corner and the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writer's group on Facebook. 10 random songs. 10 random stories exploring various characters, settings, and plot points in short bursts.
1. Minor Heaven (Tarja)

_Minor Heaven (Tarja; iPod Shuffle Challenge 1)_

He doesn't know when he started noticing her. He doesn't even know when she came to the Circle. He doesn't know why she'd _want_ to become a Chantry sister, let alone come to Kinloch Hold in the middle of the cold and lonely lake. All he knows is that she's more beautiful than any Chantry sister he's seen; he didn't think they were allowed to be beautiful, that they set aside their beauty when they took their vows.

She catches him staring at her during chapel service and she blushes. He looks away quickly, blushing himself. Secretly he's satisfied, because he's never made a woman blush before.

He starts using his free time to go to prayer; the Templars all approve of this, because as a mage, Jowan is inherently sinful, an abomination waiting to happen. There, with his head bowed and his eyes (mostly) closed, he sits quietly and listens. She sounds like she's from Ferelden. The Revered Mother tsks disapprovingly. "No, Lily. You must practice the ritual again." Jowan closes his eyes before anyone can catch him glancing to the side to catch Lily's flame-red hair in the candlelight. The pink and maroon robes of the Chantry initiates normally wash out the other women, but when combined with Lily's red hair, it makes her skin look soft and creamy. He can't tell what color her eyes are; he hasn't gotten that close—yet—but even now he doesn't care.

She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

Lily sighs as the Revered Mother's footsteps fade away. There's another mage on the other side of the room praying. Jowan wants to tell Keili that no matter how hard she prays, the Maker's not going to suddenly make her not-a-mage. He suspects she wants to be made Tranquil, and for that, Jowan can't bring himself to even try to be nice to her. He sighs too. Yes, mages are dangerous, but they are what they are; none of them had any choice in the matter. Not like Lily, who had a choice to come here.

Lily kneels down beside him and bows her head, but he gets the feeling that she's not praying, either. "What did you do wrong?" he finally whispers, swallowing his fears. What does it matter if he fails? Success, failure… they mean nothing in here. He has nothing to lose.

"I didn't burn enough incense," she says.

"That's all?" Jowan asks. He dares a glance at her.

Her eyes are blue.

She is smiling. "Yes, that's all." Suddenly she giggles, an alien sound in this heavy, solemn place. Keili looks up, her perpetual frown pasted on her face. Lily looks away from her. "I'm not cut out for this," she says ruefully, tugging on a strand of dark red hair. She glances up at Jowan through her thick, dark lashes, and her blue eyes are twinkling.

"Sometimes I don't think I am either," he says, entranced. "Not that I can do anything about it. At least I've accepted that, unlike her," he says, waving his hand at Keili, who's back to her fervent prayer. "I'm Jowan," he says.

"Lily." She sticks her hand out for him to shake.

Jowan stares at her creamy, pale hand and his own palms sweat. A dozen or more questions dance through his mind. _Can I touch her hand? Am I allowed? _Among them. He glances about nervously to see if anyone is watching.

Lily giggles again. "It's not against the rules to be polite," she says with a smile that melts away any caution Jowan may have had.

"Thank the Maker for that." He takes her hand.

His blood pulses in his ears. He's coming undone, all at the touch of her soft skin. His breath catches in his throat and he's holding her hand too tightly but she doesn't move. She smiles. "It's getting later. You should go before they send the Templars in after you," she says.

Jowan drops her hand. "Right."

He leaves, having forgotten to pray. He doesn't care. He's unforgiven, and he's about to commit the greatest sin of all.

He is in love.


	2. The Betrayal (Inon Zur)

_The Betrayal (Inon Zur)_

"The General is a man of high renown," Riordan insisted.

Anora stepped up, blue eyes glistening with tears. "Yes! And the Joining ritual is often fatal; if my father does not survive it, you get your revenge. If he survives, you get your Warden."

Alistair looked between Elissa and Riordan. Riordan was nodding in agreement with Anora, and Elissa… Maker damn her! She looked like she was _actually_ thinking about it! "For someone not a Grey Warden you seem to know a lot about the Joining," he accused. Anora's lips parted and she inhaled as if about to say something. Elissa grabbed his arm, but he yanked it away from her. He looked to Riordan. "He imprisoned you. He had you tortured. He abandoned our brothers, _our king_, to die on the battlefield, and you'd suggest he join our ranks?"

Everyone stared at Alistair. He felt their eyes on him, boring through his armor. He felt lightheaded, like he might pass out. He looked down, and sure enough, he was still wearing pants. This wasn't a dream; it was reality. Every worst fear he'd ever had, had come crashing down upon him in this moment.

His eyes landed on Loghain, kneeling before them, glancing up from under his eyebrows. Sweat rolled in rivulets down his craggy face, and his breath wheezed in his throat. Though he'd fought in the duel as well as a man half his age, he was still not as young as he used to be. "Do what you must Warden," he growled. "Just make it quick."

"We could use the numbers," Elissa said at long last. She did not look at him.

The chill he felt was not from the air. It started inside, bone-deep and creeping out until he felt his skin prickling beneath his armor. "Numbers. That's all this is?" He stared at her, incredulous. Next to Elissa, Anora looked relieved, yet smug. What he wouldn't have given to wipe that smirk off her face with his sword. But his position was still precarious. "He betrayed us as Wardens and as Fereldans the day he quit the field! If you insist on this, there is no way I can stand by you."

Elissa winced as if stung. Her brown eyes seemed glazed with tears, but in his anger he didn't care. There was a time he would have wiped those tears away and held her close until the nightmare, or whatever had bothered her, passed. But this time he was seeing those tears for what they were: sadness that she was not going to get her way. "You can't have it both ways, Elissa," he said at last. "It's him or me."

"We need every advantage we can get, Alistair," she said at last. "This isn't about you and me; this is about ending the Blight. We have a responsibility as Wardens—"

"And Loghain had a responsibility to his king. Make your choice, Elissa."

And though he expected her choice, it still cut worse than any darkspawn blade. She tried to call after him, but he ignored her. He heard Anora yell for his arrest, demand his execution… and he didn't care. He ran as fast as he could in his bulky plate armor, which was not fast enough to outrun Anora's guards. "Take him to Fort Drakon to await execution," Anora demanded. "I'll not have him as a threat to my reign."

He slumped in his armor and let them drag him along. Elissa sniffled. He took one last look at her: her glistening brown eyes, her tear-stained face. The rose in her hand that she let fall to the floor. The rose he crushed beneath his boot as he was escorted to await his death. Dying. It would feel good, compared to the stinging, burning, throb he felt inside as the result of her betrayal.

It was only later, as he sat naked and shackled in the cold, damp dark of the lowest dungeons that he realized the irony of his predicament, and it made him laugh. Elissa had recruited Loghain to improve their numbers. In doing so, she'd lost Alistair to the dungeons. In breaking his heart, she'd only broken even.


	3. The Reign (Tarja)

_The Reign (Tarja)_

They dragged her through the streets of Minrathous, her bare feet barely scraping the stone roadways. On every side of her the crowds screamed and threw flowers or rotten food. Andraste was too weak to lift her head even if she had wanted to; her lank and tangled hair curtained off her face and obscured her vision. She could not look at them, though she wanted to. Her heart was too heavy, and to look upon those that mocked and condemned her was to show them the love she had for them, and the forgiveness that she bestowed upon them even in her final hour.

She was blessed, because she stood in the face of wickedness and did not falter. Even as they shoved her against the rough wooden stake on the raised platform in the city center, she knew the Maker's will was written in her blood. She managed to lift her head and look upon them all: the corrupt, the ignorant, the just and unjust. The Maker filled her heart with pain and pity and a vision of the future. As she looked out upon them the sun shone and blinded her until she could truly see.

On the distant horizon stood the Black City; long had its shadowy gates haunted her dreams, and had of late begun to haunt her waking hours. Its towers were stained with blood and corruption; its gates were forever shut, and would open to no one. She listened for the voice of the Maker, for His reassurances and His blessings, but the heavens were silent. They'd speak to no one, not even her.

Andraste blinked and saw waves and sand; another land of freedom. Was this a dream within a dream? Was this the Maker's last gift to his earthly bride before demanding her sacrifice?

The vision faded into reality: the angry shouts, the screams, the sobs. So much pain. Maferath stood at the base of her podium, face grim and unreadable. She did not begrudge him this betrayal. She forgave him, as the Maker asked all to forgive. There was no hatred in her, even as the archon stuck the torch into the brush at her bound feet. There was only love, even as the flames leapt up around her.

Flames blazed and smoke choked her, and there was real, physical pain such as she'd never known possible. But still there was love inside of her. She screamed until her throat was raw and she could not breathe, only choke on the heat and smoke and pain and still: there was love.

Her only hope was that her cries might touch their hearts, that hers might be the last sacrifice. That love would shine free, forever. That her legacy would be one of peace and love and forgiveness.

Andraste's screams were more than Hessarion could bear. He watched her writhe against the chains that bound her to her pyre of shame. Her skin reddened and bubbled and grew black in places and though the smoke that billowed up surely choked her, she still would not die. Pity moved his heart and he drew his sword.

Her eyes were still open when he took a deep breath, approached the flames, and drove his blade though her heart. Her screams stopped; her eyes drooped. But in them was gratitude.

And love.

Always, love.


	4. A Hero Comes Home (Idina Menzel)

_A Hero Comes Home_ _(Idina Menzel)_

"Tell me of what you have seen, Sten of the Beresaad."

Sten rose to his feet and nodded once. "I sailed across the sea to a wounded nation to find that we are not alone in our quest."

The Arishok met his eyes with an unblinking stare. Sten maintained eye contact, for he was not a lesser warrior who would flinch under such scrutiny. He was the Sten of the Beresaad, and he had a duty to his Arishok and to the demands of the Qun. "Of those who went out, only you survived. How is it that you did not die, as did the other _kadan_?"

"I should have died, Arishok," he said, finally lowering his gaze. "My sword, my _Asala_ was taken from me, and in my anger I murdered innocents. I was prepared to pay for my crimes with death, as is the way of the Qun."

"Yet you live."

He looked up and stood tall and proud. "My soul has been restored to me." He presented his two-handed greatsword, holding it before him; its weight hardly seemed to matter in his reverent grasp. "When my soul was restored, I sought the opportunity to regain my honor. Many darkspawn were slain in the name of the Qun."

The Arishok leaned back in his seat, resting one elbow on the arm of the chair, and stroking his chin with the other. "You go to places unknown; you lose your sword and then regain it, thus regaining your honor. You have done much that others of the Qunari have never done, nor will ever have the opportunity to do." He gripped the arms of his chair and his mouth curved in the closest he could get to a smile. "But tell me. Did you meet any warriors of note? Any worthy of the name of _kadan?"_

Sten rested his sword tip on the floor and folded his hands over the pommel. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. "I met many individuals of honor," he said at last. "Warriors. Even thieves and mages. One brave dog, for whom battle was as natural as breathing. But only one human I shall ever call _kadan_. The Warden."

The Arishok nodded once. "I see. Sten of the Beresaad, you have seen much and experienced more. Someday you may become Arishok in my place, and this journey will serve you well."

Sten bent to one knee again, hand on his sword. "I am honored, Arishok." He rose and turned to leave.

"Sten of the Beresaad."

He turned.

"Of all you saw and did in this human land of Ferelden, what memory ligers longest?"

Sten paused. "We have no word for it in the Qunari tongue," he said. "But the humans of Ferelden call them… cookies."


	5. The Dalish Elves' Encampment (Inon Zur)

_The Dalish Elves' Encampment (Inon Zur)_

She misses the trees: the feeling of the living wood, Her spirit the warm sap, the sunlight absorbed through the leaves. She misses the ground beneath her feet, the rain falling on her and through her. She misses what this forest once was: a living, breathing place. She yearns for the ability to move, unhindered by physical form.

Sadness dims the sunlight, and darkness strangles the pathways. The light, lithe halla have fled; only emaciated, desperate predators remain. She feels their pain; she wishes she could communicate with them as she once did, but rather than a spirit of the forest, a symbol of all that lives and breathes in the depths of the Brecilian woods, they see another wolf. She is their competition.

Her spirit yearns for release, but only Zathrian can grant it with his death. And he has proven his boundless selfishness by binding her in this curse to begin with. So she waits.

She stalks the edges of the Dalish encampment. Her wolf nose is a good one, and can pick up many scents; she growls when she catches wind of the Keeper and his heavy secret. She wants to tear him to shreds and then she feels sad, because that is the heart of Witherfang, the wolf thinking and feeling. Not the Spirit of the Forest, who smells, tastes, feels, hears all in its natural, cacophonous harmony.

Some of the Dalish murmur about moving on, to greener forests and brighter lands. Zathrian always refuses, even as his stay becomes more futile. Though game is scarce, even amongst the natural predators, Zathrian sends out his hunters anyway. She follows them, her own step even lighter than theirs. She watches their disappointment. Senses their desperation. Hears and smells Zathrian's anger when there is no food.

He cares about his people.

The first elf she catches cries. He's a slim boy, barely come into manhood, with delicate features that twist and distort as her bite takes effect. He grows, large and bulky, with knife-like teeth and ropes of drool hanging from his jaws. The next elves don't go down any more easily, but as she builds her army, they help recruit. She works to calm their savage nature; she explains what Zathrian has done to her and to the forest.

Their anger twists their animal hearts. They look to her for guidance and leadership and solace. They rage against Zathrian and kill and change their own people.

The elves' encampment is a place of sorrow and blood. Their sobs and groans fill the forest at night. She listens with a heavy heart, and yet continues to hope that just maybe Zathrian will be moved by the plight of his people. Just maybe he will tire of the pain he's gone through and the pain he's caused, and maybe he will seek peace.

She misses the peace.


	6. Nothing Else Matters (Metallica)

_Nothing Else Matters (Metallica; Instrumental cover by David Garrett)_

Elthina tells him to forgive and move on. She tells him there is no glory in vengeance and to seek the Maker's will for his life. She calls it madness, foolishness, futility… anything to appeal to his sense of reason and his passion for the Chantry.

But he cannot move on. Sebastian hears Elthina's words; he understands the teachings of the Chantry and prays daily to Andraste and the Maker for guidance. He considers forgiveness, even comes close a couple of times. But every time his heart is on the edge of forgiving, he remembers he is a Vael of Starkhaven. He sees his sister's face in his mind; he remembers his parents' stern countenances melting into smiles of pride when he took his vows as a brother. He knows as a brother he must forgive; but as a Vael, he cannot rest until his family's slaughter is avenged.

He used to think that serving his own needs would bring him peace in this world, but Elthina and the Chantry taught him otherwise. He knows the dead do not demand vengeance; they demand nothing, because they are dead and at rest. He knows vengeance is the demand of the living. He used to think serving the Chantry would bring him peace. He serves the Kirkwall Chantry with all the vigor he can muster, focuses all his energy on prayer and serving the poor.

Sebastian tries to ignore the gossip and news that streams in as steadily as the Fereldan refugees. He hears about the Carta, the Coterie, and most importantly, the Flint Company. Even as he tries to pray before the great golden altar of Andraste, he hears the rumors and his heart is troubled. He remembers his brothers and their wives. His sister, resplendent in her formal finery. His parents, firm, but fair and kind to their children and their subjects. And he cannot rest. He is a brother of the Chantry and he trusts in the Maker; but he is also a Vael of Starkhaven, and he trusts in that knowledge of himself to do what must be done.

He is above the games of politics played by the nobles, so he doesn't appeal to them or their coin for help. He does not appeal to Elthina, or any of his brothers and sisters of the cloth, either. He feels their eyes on him, and thinks he can sense their prayers for his troubled soul. He prays for his own soul as well. He tries to believe that the Maker would want this. He wants to believe that the Maker would look unkindly on those who murder, and want justice for the innocent. He tries to convince himself that he is only seeking justice, and that is all that matters.

He knows he's lying to himself.

But he also knows he can't do this by himself.

He dons the armor his father had commissioned for him. It is the first time he's done this since he took his vows. He will wear it until he retakes Starkhaven, in the name of the Vaels, and Andraste and the Maker.

And it is as Sebastian Vael, heir to the throne of Starkhaven, that he pins his notice to the Kirkwall Chanter's Board. He will renew his vows to the Chantry once he finds justice for his family. Until then, nothing else matters.


	7. Canto Alla Vita

_Canto Alla Vita (Josh Groban)_

Once, I was worshipped. I was treated with reverence. I received offerings of the sweetest incense, like every flower of Tevinter borne on the scents of the wind and rain; incense as sweet as the choicest cuts of meat roasted slowly over a fire fed by the most fragrant wood. I was given sacrifices of the most lovely youths and maidens. I received their tears with joy. I was given gifts of music: songs, chants, symphonies composed for me alone. I gave beauty freely, and received it with gladness. My wrath was not dark, but beautiful and terrible as the dawn. There was beauty in joy, and beauty in fear. Even sadness and pain were beautiful.

Then there was darkness and silence. The sacrifices and offerings came to an end and I rested in dark silence. Though even without light or sound, there was beauty in the simplicity of it.

I waited for eons, though for the Old Gods, time is meaningless. My brothers and sisters faded into memory, waiting to be reborn. I never knew of their fates, nor did I care. My only concern was beauty in all its forms. I slept and dreamed of bright skies and burning dragons, rolling seas and sweet smoked offerings.

The touch of corruption shattered my lovely dreams to ugliness. Ruddy light, ugly as drying blood, forced away the darkness. I had blood and it burned and ached and horrified me. When I woke and saw the creature standing before me, I screamed a cacophony of terror. It was the ultimate mockery of the music I'd blessed and so loved. The ugliness of anger and fear filled my being.

Beauty was wounded; the pain and strife danced through me while ugliness possessed me with fierceness I could not have imagined, even in my timeless, endless mind.

The one who woke me stared at me, willing me to act. "Go forth, Urthemiel," he said, and there was no reverence or joy in his voice.

I only obeyed because I could not stand this prison any longer. I emerged, reborn and twisted, my body made of blood and darkness. Where once I desired to create, I only wanted to destroy. I had become corrupted. The god of beauty, corrupted! When I screamed my rage, the Maker's abandoned children came unto me. As dark, twisted, and corrupt as I was, but soulless, they stared and waited for me to act.

They mocked me with their empty worship. They would be incapable of creating anything lovely, but then again, so would I. We could only destroy.

I led them forth.


	8. Life Starts Now

_Life Starts Now (Three Days Grace)_

Leandra's voice echoes in the courtyard. "You can't both leave!" she sobs. "I've already lost Bethany; I can't bear to lose my other two children!"

Dorian looks at Carver, and he knows exactly what she's going to say. He steels his nerves and tries to bury his pride deeply. But he can't, and when Dorian tells him to remain behind, his chest aches and his eyes sting. He watches her leave. "Fine, go," he snaps, turning before she can apologize or try to appeal to him. She lost that right a long time ago.

He starts the walk back to Lowtown before Dorian and Varric and their adoring entourage have even left the city.

"Carver! Carver, come back!" Leandra calls, heedless of the stares the other denizens of Lowtown send her way. "Please, Carver!"

He doesn't turn around. He passes by the Hanged Man. He passes the entry to the Lowtown Slums, those abominable alleys full of dust and flies that he has to call home. It's not home. It won't ever be home. Lothering was home, and there's no going back there.

He find himself down by the docks. Leandra stopped following him a long time ago. She probably went back to Gamlen's hovel. She's probably sobbing into the poor excuse for a pillow in her poor excuse for a bedroom while Gamlen bitches at her about Dorian leaving. Dorian brings in coin; with her gone, he may have to rely on Carver.

Carver kicks a stone off the edge of the dock. He's sick of being relied on by everyone. His mother expects him to fill the void left by Bethany. She expects him to help protect Dorian. Dorian expects him to tag along, then doesn't have the decency to take him on her trip to the Deep Roads. "No bloody templars there. She doesn't need me," he mutters, and kicks another rock.

He watches the ripples fan out from the rock's impact. He watches until they disappear, and the sun moves, casting the shadow of the Gallows out over Kirkwall Harbor.

He's watched the templars over this last year or so in Kirkwall. They don't just stick to the Gallows; they're everywhere. They're imposing. They're respected. They're everything he isn't.

They left Lothering to find a life for themselves. So far the only one who's one anything remotely close to that is Dorian. Leandra is content to mope and pace around Gamlen's sorry excuse for a home, and Dorian barely gives him a second thought. Bethany, the closest thing he had to a friend, is gone.

He hands a coin to the ferryman. "Take me to the Gallows," he says.

He knows what his mother will say: this choice is a disgrace to Bethany's memory. But if Bethany were here, he would be doing this to protect her. If he makes a name for himself as a templar, maybe they wouldn't be looking too closely at his family. Maybe they won't look too closely at Dorian. And if they do start looking more deeply into her, at least he knows he'll be safe.

The sun has since set when he returns to Gamlen's, his letter of commission clutched tightly in his hand. "I went to the Gallows today," he says loudly without waiting for his mother to greet him. "I'm joining the templars." She cries, which he expected. She begs, which he also expected. At one point in his life he would melt with guilt, apologize, and change his mind. But now he just feels sort of hollow and tired.

"Why would you do this?" she sobs, leaning against the rough wooden table. "How can you do this while I'm trying to start a life?"

It's the last straw. Carver goes into his tiny room that he shares… no, shared with Dorian. He packs a few small trinkets from Lothering. He takes the crumpled letters that an old templar saved, the ones from Ser Maurevar Carver to Malcolm. Somehow it makes him feel better knowing that, even though his father was an apostate, he had friendships with his father. He'll be like Ser Maurevar.

His mother is still crying at the table when he comes out and heads to the door. "This isn't the life I want. I'm joining the templars. My life starts now."

He doesn't look back.


End file.
